Arisen, Book Eight - Empire of the Dead Read online

  “No bubbles…” Pred said, putting down his paddle now and hefting his rifle, and scanning through squinted eyes in all directions around them. “But I guess now we can follow the blood trail.”

  “Sodding body trail, more like,” Henno amended. He reached out with his own rifle, using it like a boat hook to drag the floating dead man in. “Bloke’s got a big swatch of his wetsuit cut away. What the hell is that about?”

  “No idea,” Pred said, straining as he moved to help, reaching out over the water to grab the dead diver by a strap on his air tank. “What the hell is Homer doing down there? The Bible-thumping sumbitch only went in the water twelve minutes ago…”

  Knife to a Knife Fight

  Open Water, Beneath the JFK [Twelve Minutes Earlier]

  Any SEAL will tell you the darkest place in the universe is beneath the hull of a large oceangoing ship in the middle of a moonless night.

  Because every SEAL has been there.

  It wasn’t nighttime now, but the Kennedy cast one hell of a deep shadow, and had a draft of nearly 40 feet. And Homer, after doing a sitting backflip into the water from the dock at its rear, was going to have to get way down underneath it to start checking and clearing the hull. So the sun was totally blotted out by the giant floating planet he now orbited, on its dark side. And he was also keeping his dive lamp off until he really needed it.

  These facts, plus the murkiness of the water over the continental shelf, meant he was swimming in a dark place, shapeless forms of nothing looming at him out of the watery darkness, while the vague whale-like noises of the supercarrier rolled through the water at him in waves.

  It was a whole different world down there.

  But Homer minded none of this – because he was back in Mother Ocean, the balm and protector of every SEAL. He couldn’t even remember all the bad firefights he’d been in where his team’s whole objective had been to get back to the water alive. There, they could stay afloat any length of time, swim any distance – and the Navy had an awful lot of nice submarines that could come and scoop them up.

  No, the ocean was much the best place for him.

  He powered himself through the murky water, kicking smoothly and rhythmically, left then right, his pistol-grip light floating from a lanyard around his wrist. Down… and around… and down again…

  He oriented himself quickly, following and tracing the shape of the keel. He needed to be thorough. But he also had to stay clear of the ship’s giant 30-ton propellers, each one 21 feet in diameter. They weren’t spinning now, but Homer hadn’t bothered to tell anyone in charge what he was doing, so there was no guarantee of them not starting up. Maybe he preferred to ask for forgiveness rather than permission.

  Maybe, as usual, there just wasn’t time.

  On the upside, he happened to be in a position to know the perfect place to put a limpet mine on this type of vessel to do the most damage – to rip the hull open and send her straight to the bottom. He knew this because he’d been trained to do exactly that himself. And this knowledge allowed him to be efficient in his search.

  And, sure enough, exactly where he expected it, he found the first charge, protruding from the smooth surface of the hull like a tumor. You sneaky Godless communists, Homer thought to himself, clucking his tongue.

  He approached the device cautiously – then stopped, turned, and took a long, careful, 360-degree look around him. He scanned the water above and below, and to all sides, though visibility here probably extended to no more than 15 meters. Finally, he squared up to the mine and got his Gerber multi-tool out of its pouch on his diving belt.

  After finding and disabling an anti-handling device, he carefully removed the eight screws on the outer housing, then simply unscrewed the fuze inside, which rendered the explosive safe. This was a standard Soviet SPM limpet mine, and Homer had disarmed any number of them in training exercises. This one had been attached with two 25-pound horseshoe magnets. He knew he could yank the whole thing free with his body strength alone – but just barely.

  He chose to leave it where it was for now.

  Because he had a lot of hull left to clear.

  And, as strong a swimmer as he was, he didn’t relish doing it with 50-plus pounds of extra weight.

  * * *

  Ali finally removed herself from blasting air at the lip of the Seahawk’s door, and got settled in one of the flip-down troop seats at the rear of the cabin. Buckling in, she looked up at the crew chief on his minigun, farther up, just behind the flight deck on the right side.

  The contoured noise-insulation padding overhead had come loose, and the crew chief kept swatting it off him, like a determined fly. Ali guessed he’d been doing that routine for a long time. It seemed unconscious at this point.

  Also up at the front, in the center, was their Navy rescue swimmer. He was bent at the waist, leaning into the flight deck, conferring with the pilot and co-pilot/ATO (airborne tactical officer).

  Soon, the swimmer would be jumping into open water, holding little more than a rescue strop and a length of rope. Ali could see where he wouldn’t want any miscommunication between him and the guys piloting the machine suspended over his head – a 64-foot, 18,000-pound beast, with 54-foot rotor blades spinning at 250rpm.

  Ali reached up behind her, pulled an ICS headset from its hook, and seated it on her head. But whatever the crew had been discussing, she had just missed it.

  The swimmer stalked back into the cabin and put himself in the seat facing Ali. He had no name tape on his wetsuit. She tried a friendly nod, but didn’t get much in return. She didn’t hold it against him. This dude had a very serious job, and the next few minutes might be the ones that defined his whole career. Their pilots presumably didn’t ditch in the ocean very often – never mind their CAG. Now, this guy looked totally focused, his game face glued on.

  Finally, a voice cut through the rotor, wind, and engine noise, and directly into Ali’s brain via the headset. It was either the pilot or, slightly more likely, the co-pilot/ATO. “Three mikes! ETA three mikes to transponder signal!” This meant the downed CAG was still in the water. And they had almost reached him.

  Ali thought this was interesting info to have, but not comprehensive. She shouted into her chin mic, “What’s the status of the inbound Russian helo?”

  There was a pause on the other end. “Russian air contact is also on intercept with transponder signal.” Before Ali could lodge her follow-up question, which was going to feature another sort of question word, he came on again. “It’s close… it’s there… Russian helo is static, going into a hover. We’re coming into visual now…”

  Ali exhaled mournfully. So they were already too late – they had been beaten to the prize. And now they would be facing some kind of reception party when they reached the site where their pilot had ditched.

  As she undid the buckle on her seat, she flashed back to LT Campbell’s comment back in CIC: “They’ve already got a minigunner in the door.” Sure, Ali thought, clapping the man on the shoulder as she hefted her rifle and took up a position behind him, facing the other way. But he can only be on one side of the aircraft – and his weapon’s got a max effective range of 1,000 meters…

  She took her left hand from her barrel rail, worked the latch on the port-side door, and hauled it open with one strong pull. The wind in the cabin doubled as Ali clipped herself into a crew safety harness, then leaned out into the blasting sea air, with only open sky (and that harness) between her and a long fall to the deep blue sea below.

  With her ass hanging out in the wind, she could now make out the Russian Ka-60, or “Orca,” low on the horizon. A transport/utility helo, both its size and profile were similar to that of the Seahawk, but with a pointier nose and taller engine cowling. It was also painted the same neutral, naval gray.

  And it was indeed static – holding hover less than ten meters above the ocean surface.

  Godammit, Ali thought.

  She had a pretty good idea of what the Russians
were doing right now: “rescuing” the Kennedy’s CAG. Only she guessed he wasn’t going to be real enthusiastic about being rescued by these particular asshats. And if this happened, and they lost their man… it would happen on Ali’s watch.

  Screw that, she thought, pulling in her rifle tight into her shoulder. We’ve been beaten to the prize when I SAY we’re beaten.

  She had her own reception in mind for the Russians.

  * * *

  Homer found the second mine in precisely the second-most-likely place for it, about forty meters farther up the keel. Before disarming this one, he took another careful look around in the murky dimness…

  …just not careful enough.

  He realized this a few seconds later when a forearm clamped across his windpipe – it was rubberized wetsuit on the outside, hardwood-like flesh and bone underneath – causing an instant, panicked choking reaction.

  He had to fight this reaction, and overcome it, because he knew the enemy diver’s other arm, the knife-wielding one, would be coming in right behind it. He just didn’t know whether it would be coming up, through his ribs and into his heart – or straight around into the side of his neck. It was pretty much a toss-up.

  And he had about a quarter-second to place his bet.

  He went with neck. Slipping a blade in through the ribs was precision work, and could easily go wrong.

  He was right. In the same instant that he flipped his right fist and forearm up to guard the side of his neck, he felt the blade go in – straight into his arm, which was a hell of a lot better than his carotid – but it went in deep. In fact, he was lucky not to get the neck wound anyway, as the blade came out the other side.

  A few seconds later, when his attacker didn’t try to withdraw the blade, but instead left it where it was, Homer knew he was dealing with a pro. But when the enemy diver produced a second, identical knife, Homer knew this guy was worse than a pro.

  He was a seriously scary operator.

  * * *

  Ali pulled her Mk12 designated marksman rifle (DMR) in tight to her shoulder, dialed the magnification on the optic up to its maximum 10x, and sighted in… and the first thing she saw was the Russians’ minigunner in the Orca’s open side door. But what she was really interested in was the disposition of his weapon.

  She couldn’t realistically expect him not to sight in on the incoming American helo. But she also couldn’t really afford to let him do so, either. With a rate of fire of 100 rounds per second, that minigun could take down the Seahawk in two heartbeats flat.

  After all this was over, Ali knew some might take her to task for firing before she was fired upon, or say she’d been too aggressive. To that, she would say: maximum violence instantly. That’s how most fights are won. The dirty way.

  The guy in her sights was manning a big-ass minigun. And he just really shouldn’t have pointed it at Ali and her team. Anyway, the Russians had already blindsided them once, with their anti-ship missiles. And that was all the goodwill they were going to get – from Ali, anyway.

  They can count themselves lucky I’m letting them stay in the air, she thought. And she was only doing that because she didn’t know for sure that their CAG hadn’t already been loaded on board.

  She put her target reticle on the gunner’s forehead, took the slack out of the trigger, then took a deep breath and released half. And as she began to squeeze out the rest of the trigger pull, timing it between heartbeats, she could see the gunner, magnified massively through her scope, cock his head – and adjust the angle of his weapon.

  Ali squeezed the trigger and fired—

  —at the same instant the Seahawk banked to the right, slamming her to the deck. They had gone evasive, probably because the pilot saw the same intent on the Russian gunner she had. The sudden and violent motion sent her sprawling onto her back on the steel deck, shooting waves of pain through the vertebrae and arm she had injured in Chicago, and knocking the wind out of her.

  It also made her first shot go wild.

  Fuck. Ali hated missing a first shot.

  As she fought against the G-forces from the careening helo, and tried to lever herself up off the deck, she saw the left side of the cabin erupt with dozens of ragged holes, popping open the bird’s skin and admitting sunlight and more whistling air.

  Fuck again. The Russian minigunner had found the range, and was lighting them up. They were losing this fight.

  And Ali hadn’t even gotten her gun into it yet.

  Sniper Rifle to a Minigun Fight

  Open Water, Beneath the JFK

  Homer used his good left hand to bend back and break the pinky at the end of the arm crushing his windpipe. Holding tight to the wrenched little finger, he brought his left elbow around and drove it into the face and diving mask behind his head. That, followed by a spin in place and a kick to the chest – powerful because his back was up against the hull – earned him a few feet of breathing room.

  And a few more seconds of life.

  He had to resist the impulse to yank out the knife sticking through his right forearm. That was a no-go, for two reasons. One was the first rule of battlefield medicine: Win the damned fight first. Second was that, until proper medical care is available, the best place for something you’ve been stabbed with was usually right where it was. The chief effect of removing it would be to cause the wound to bleed more, and faster. Right now, that knife was keeping a lot of Homer’s blood in his body.

  Which was where he needed it.

  He was going to need all his resources. Because he hadn’t been in a knife fight underwater in, oh, it must have been years. He felt a little sluggish. Oh, yeah – he was underwater, where everyone and everything moved sluggishly.

  He got his own knife out and around in an overhand grip – just a bit too late to parry the incoming underhand stroke of the other guy with his second dive knife. The steel of the two blades clashed – but not before the Russian one had scored Homer across the chest. It wasn’t deep, but both his wetsuit and his skin had been laid open. And that salt water stung like a son of a bitch.

  Moreover, they were about five seconds into this fight – and Homer was already bleeding in three places.

  The clock was ticking for him now.

  And the closest help was a whole world away – in the one up on the other side of the ocean surface, nearly forty feet above. No. Homer was going to have to fight his way out of this one – all on his own.

  But maybe with a little help from God.

  He was pretty sure he was going to need it.

  * * *

  As the bullet-riddled Seahawk continued to bank and scream and shake, and as Ali battled against the G-forces to climb back to her feet, she heard the sound of their own minigun spinning up, and triggering off like doomsday. It was a close-quarters, buzzsaw-in-hell kind of noise, and buckets of expended brass poured out the bottom of the weapon, cascading like shiny liquid metal into the sea below.

  Well, Ali thought, two can play at miniguns…

  Then again, she wasn’t sure she liked their odds in a minigun duel at two hundred yards. She feared there could be no winners – only the equivalent of coming in third in a two-man axe fight. The two helos might easily shoot each other out of the sky, which was no help. Not to them, and not to their pilot down on the water.

  But she wasn’t flying this damned thing, she wasn’t commanding the mission, and – as so often – she didn’t get to design reality to suit her. Her job was to adapt to the circumstances, and overcome them.

  To survive and prevail.

  She lurched to her feet, then rocked up next to the door gunner, just as the Russian helo spun out of view.

  “Bring us around, bring us around!” the crew chief shouted over ICS. He clearly had the scent of prey, and wanted another look. Ali considered going back to the left side to try for a shot on that go-round – but they were banking too quickly, and the Orca was coming around this side again already.

  She could still hear rounds i
mpacting and flecking off the airframe, she just couldn’t tell where. It was kind of everywhere. She kept her head down as they came around.

  The co-pilot came on over ICS: “Take that fucking minigun out NOW – or we CANNOT stay here!”

  The crew chief bunched up his shoulders and began triggering off well in advance of getting a sight picture. He simply walked his fire on as the target spun by in front of him. Ali could see hundreds of his 7.62 rounds plinking into and flecking around the Russian minigun emplacement – which was more exposed in its full-length doorway than was their own in its half-length window.

  And she saw the Russian gunner drop out of view.

  “Yeah, bitch!” the crew chief whooped in triumph. “Suck the fat one!”

  The Seahawk’s rate of turn slowed now, and they started to level out, as they no longer had to desperately evade incoming minigun fire.

  Ali knew the Russians would have someone else to put on that gun. But it would take them a few seconds to do it. They’d have to deal with their casualty. And the replacement wouldn’t be their first-stringer. The crew chief had done good. He’d bought them time.

  She turned to face him as he whooped again, and returned his exuberant high five, way up in the air between them. At the very instant their palms smacked together…

  … the chief’s arm came free.

  It hit Ali in the chest, then fell to the deck.

  Blood splashed across the front of her assault suit.

  The chief looked down uncomprehendingly at the stump of his arm, which had been severed just below the elbow. Ali grabbed him by his safety harness and hauled him to the deck like an MMA takedown, then fell on top of him. She took one second to pull the tourniquet from its loop on the shoulder of her vest, and dropped it on his chest – she doubted he could get it on with one hand, as infantry guys were trained to, but she didn’t have time to do it herself right now – then climbed up and put just her eye and her scope over the lip of the gunner’s window.